Do you think of me?
by Lonewolf66
Summary: 'I never told you you're my somebody, everybody...' - A look at life, for John and the others, after Sherlock's death, written to the song, 'Do you think of me? by Misha B - slight Johnlock if you squint - Please read and enjoy x


**Okay, so, Hi. I've just finished watching the first and second season of Sherlock and have become completely addicated, so I thought I'd give this a try =D hope you like x **

**Spoilers x **

Angsty, saddening, nothing too bad, about Johns and other peoples thoughts on the death of Sherlock.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The song is 'Do you think of me?' By Misha B x

**Do you think of me?**

_I'll leave the light on,_

_In case you come back,_

He had started doing silly things. Little things, without even realizing, but when he did realize what he had done, it was like a knife to the heart. Painful. Sudden. It made him stop, in the middle of whatever he had been doing, as a fresh wave of loss crashed into him.

On more than one occasion he had had to force himself not to cry, his hands on his knees, breathing deep through his mouth. Little things, like leaving a light on, in case he came back. It was something he had done when Sherlock had been out late. A small lamp, welcoming him home.

_In case you come back,_

_I'm playing my old song,_

The violin. Left, where it stood, after the last time he had used it. John never touched it. Wouldn't…couldn't. During a particularly rough week, he had reached for it, thinking moving it, putting it away, something, would help. His fingers had reached out, aching to touch something of his, but he couldn't. It was like a force, stopping his fingers, inches before it touched the wood. Inches. He withdrew, his fingers curling into a fist.

_God I believe that, yes I believe that,_

_It's been too long, _

Months passed. Days and weeks and months. Blurred. Too long. Why? _Why? _Why wasn't he back yet? How could he have stayed away for so long? John knew the answers to this, when he sat on the couch, at 2am, his ears aching for the sound of the violin. Missing it. Unable to sleep without it. How...strange. It's been too long. Too long for it to have been staged. Too long for it to not be real.

_I've tried to stay strong, _

_But you're one life away, _

It had been tough on them all. He never knew it, but they all loved him, in their own way. His absence was noticed. Greatly. Mrs. Hudson missed the noise, the interfering, and the sense of looking after two boys. She only had one boy now, and he had changed, was different. She understood. But it hurt.

Lestrade found himself at a loss. A few months after Sherlock's death, he sat at his desk, case files spread out over the top, open and unsolved. He was sure, certain even, that Sherlock would have brushed these off, solved within a day. He placed his head in his hands and sighed, tears threatening to fall.

_Do you hear me calling your name?_

"Sherlock!" John's eyes burst open, and he sat up in bed, eyes suddenly adjusting to the dark, sweat on his forehead. The dreams had begun almost straight away. The black figure, stood against the white background, black coat flapping around his legs, as he told John his lie. He could still feel the phone pressed to his ear as he gripped it tight, not believing what he saw, what he heard, what he was thinking. He reached out, could almost feel the brush of Sherlock's fingers.

"Don't." He would whisper. The word would echo into the darkness, cracked with emotion and tears and confusion. Then the fall, the tumble, and John would wake before Sherlock's body hit the concrete.

_You didn't mean to let me down…_

For the first few days he hadn't left the apartment. They hadn't found Sherlock's mobile phone. For some reason, the feeling that Sherlock would phone the apartment had tore into John, making him sit by the phone, for three days, waiting. He waited. And he didn't call. Why didn't you call?

_I'm crying waterfalls_

_Gotta believe that_

There were times when he felt like he was going to die himself. It was six months later. To the date. There had been no phone call, no knock on the door, no evidence that it was a lie. Sherlock hadn't come back. Everyone was trying to move on with their lives, and John had tried too. But one day, when he realized that there was a slim chance now that things would go back to the way they were, it punched through him. He crawled into bed, curled into a ball, and let himself properly greave. He felt like he cried for days.

_I never told you, you're my somebody, everybody, somebody, everybody…._

"There are things you didn't say, that needed saying?" John nods at his Therapist. She opens her arms. The rain on the window sounds like tapping fingers, and he turns to look, every few minutes, to make sure it's not _him_. "Say them now."

_Somebody_

He shook his head. Fiercely. Rejecting the idea before she even finished the sentence. They were not things that anyone else needed to hear. They were made for Sherlock's ears and no one else was meant to hear them.

"You can't tell me one?" She asked.

_He was the best human I had ever known. _

"John, it'll help with the process."

_He meant more to me than anyone ever had. _

"John?"

_I loved him. _

John looked at the therapist, smiled, shook his head and then stood. Without a word. He left.

_You're my somebody_…_Everybody_.

_Want you to know that you're my somebody, everybody…_

Three years had passed. It had been difficult. It had almost killed him. He hadn't gotten over it, but he had learned to move on. Sherlock was never far from his thoughts but he didn't let it rule his life. He lived in 221B Baker Street. His landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was still living in the apartment below, and she popped in every day to keep John company. There were no more women in John's life. He didn't dare. It had been too painful repairing his heart after Sherlock.

Three years had passed.

John, one evening, when the stars were shining bright outside the lounge window of 221B Baker Street, the television flickering, and John sat with a cup of tea on the sofa, had received a text that would change his life, once again.

_Open the door - SH_

John sat for a long minute. Staring. The text didn't disappear. A few minutes passed. John took a deep breath.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. _

John was rooted to the spot. He didn't dare hope…did he? He heart was beating incredibly fast in his chest, his breathing fast and erratic. No! No, John, don't…this is a…a sick game, a sick, sick game that someone was playing. Mrs. Hudson was out for the evening, so it was only John alone. He debated what to do.

_John. Open the door – SH_

John stood up explosively from the sofa, clutching the phone, roughly typing out a message.

_Who are you!? _

It took less than ten seconds for the reply to come back.

_SH _

_Don't! Don't you dare play games with me. I am going to find you and hand you over to the police! How dare you play me!? _

He pressed send and started pacing, quickly, up and down the room, turning on his heel, back again.

_Knock. Knock. Knock. _

The knock on the door again stopped him in his tracks. He waited. The phone in his hand vibrated. He clicked open the message, cautious.

_John. I know I can't ask you not to be angry with me. Please. Open the door – SH _

He stood looking at the message for a long minute, and then broke out into tears. Tears he thought he had cried, tears he thought would be buried for a long time, buried so deep that he never thought he would cry again.

But he did cry again. Standing in the middle of his living room, he pressed the phone to his forehead, holding the cool screen to his head as he sobbed. The sobs shook his body, and he brought his other hand up, to his eyes, covering his face, crying with all he could muster. The phone vibrated gently against his head. He waited a moment to compose himself before reading to message.

_Don't cry John. Please. You know what it does to me. Open the door – SH _

John stood staring at the text for a long minute…and then rubbed his face on the sleeve of his jacket, turned and walked to the stairs. He rushed down the first set, hope filling his chest. If this was trick, a cruel, nasty trick, he could feel that it would most certainly kill him this time.

He turned the corner, walked slowly down a few steps, and peered at the front door.

The outline of a figure, black against the white glass, highlighted from the streetlamp behind.

His breath caught in his throat. Dare he hope? The outline most certainly looked familiar, slightly too thin from the distortion of the frosted glass, but there was a definite flick of a collar, highlighted the most. John walked down the rest of the steps, slowly, calculating.

_I never told you, you're my somebody, everybody, somebody…you're my everybody…_

His phone buzzed again in his palm.

_I can see you through the glass, John – SH _

John swallowed hard, his fingers reaching out, grasping the door handle, turning, slow, oh, ever so slowly. There was still time, John. Still time to turn away, to move away, to run back upstairs and hide. Hide from everything.

In one brave movement, he flung the door open. The cold breeze flooded in, making him shudder, despite his jacket.

His jaw dropped when he saw the figure on the step outside 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock Holmes looked exactly like he did on the day he died. His coat collar turned up against the harsh wind, framing his face, his black curls unruly on his head, the buttons of his coat leading down to the perfect black shoes he always wore.

He turned on his heel and smiled at John. The real smile. The one he reserved for those he secretly treasured. John could only stand, one hand on the door, the other clutching his mobile, his mouth open, his expression one of shock and disbelief.

"_Sherlock_?" He whispered, desperate, desperate to see if this was real or if he had finally been driven mad.

John reached out and his fingers wrapped around the course, black material of his coat, his hand wrapped around Sherlock's arm. He held on like his life depended on it. Sherlock, slowly, reached up, and laid his own hand over John's. Sherlock's hand was cold, but real.

John closed his eyes and exhaled a shaky breath, grasping tightly to Sherlock's coat. He made a resolution, right there on the steps of 221B Baker Street, that from that moment on; he would never let Sherlock walk out of his life ever again.

He opened his eyes, to find Sherlock's locked on him, pain and worry flickering behind them. He was anxious about what John was going to say. This had obviously not been the reaction he had been expecting.

John smiled his crooked grin.

"_Tea_?" he whispered.

**So, I hope you liked it =D When the third series comes out I hope John gives Sherlock an earful =D but thought this seemed like a fitting ending xx**


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